I watch her hands move over Bambi, checking his extremities and palpating his abdomen.
“His breathing’s steadier than it was at first. That’s a good sign,” she says, continuing her examination and pressing on different areas to check for internal bleeding.
I don’t like having her so close to an injured animal of this size—especially a wild one. They’re unpredictable, and Wes will kill me if she gets hurt on my watch. Fortunately, the buck’s antlers haven’t grown in for the year yet, so I won’t need to worry about her taking an antler to the eye.
My attention is drawn to her, so focused and determined, that I almost miss the shift in the air right before the buck jolts, trying to get upright. Luckily, I’m right next to Quinn. I grab her arm and drag her out of the way, pulling her to my chest before the confused animal is fully on its feet.
I’m not sure if it’s the suddenness of the animal’s movement or the warmth of Quinn’s body pressed against my chest, but my heart takes off at a frantic gallop. I walk us backward slowly as Bambi stares at us, dazed, before finally bolting in the direction it came.
Quinn’s body relaxes. “Oh, thank God, he’s okay.”
“Yeah, he almost trampled you. Wes would have killed me if I’d let you get hurt.”
“Oh, relax. I’m fine. He was just scared and in shock.”
I roll my gaze heavenward. Only Quinn would be so damn worried about a wild animal that threw itself in front of my truck.
“I see you didn’t learn anything from the time you tried to tame all the feral barn cats.”
Her lips tip into a sheepish smile. “They just needed some love, Tripp. You saw how well it worked on Tigger.”
I let out a low chuckle. And just like that, I’m seven years old again, standing in Pops’ barn, watching her try to coax a hissing, half-wild kitten out from behind a hay bale with a chicken nugget and a princess bandage on her knee.
Twenty-seven Years Ago
I tear into the barn and come to a halt when I see Quinn peering behind a hay bale.
“Here, kitty kitty.”
Her voice is high and sweet, like she’s crooning a lullaby to the feral kitten. The ranch is overrun with them this time every year. There are at least three mamas with litters around the barn and stable.
My boots scuff across the packed dirt, and Quinn glances my way, her face melting into relief.
“Will you help me get him out, Tripp? I think he’s stuck.”
I have half a mind to tell her not to get too attached because that kitten likely won’t be here when she comes back next year—but that would probably make her cry, and I need her to stay quiet.
I’m supposed to be hiding from Wes. He’s counting to a hundred, and he’d betternot cheat.
“I’m kinda busy, Quinnie. Don’t tell Wes I’m in here, alright?” I say as I start to squeeze behind some large farming equipment.
Her face drops, and her big, round eyes go glassy with tears. I’ve seen the same look on my little sister Allie’s face before, and I know what will come next if I don’t do what she wants—red, splotchy cheeks, crying, yelling, stomping. I exhale a loud burst of air and roll my eyes so hard they might get stuck in the back of my head.
“Fine, but make it quick. Wes is gonna be lookin’ for me any second.”
“He’s too far back there. I can't reach him.”
I climb down on my hands and knees to peer behind the bale and sure enough, there’s a tiny orange kitten lodged between the hay bale and the wall. He’s puffed up with his teeth showing as he spits a pathetic hiss in my direction.
“You know if you left him there, he’d probably get out on his own just fine.”
She shakes her head furiously. “No, it looked like something was wrong with his leg, but he ran back there before I could catch him.”
I give her a blank stare. “Something’s wrong with his leg, and you still couldn’t catch him?”
She looks down at her shoes sheepishly. “Well, I had him, but he was real mad, and I dropped him when he scratched me.”
Great.
